


Aftermath

by WaywardSpark



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Always1895, Cuddling, Established Relationship, M/M, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, victorian!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-16 23:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14820681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardSpark/pseuds/WaywardSpark
Summary: “What would you say if I said I was considering retirement?”“I’d say ‘who are you and what the hell have you done with Sherlock Holmes.’”





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This is my time ever entering a fic prompt challenge. This is for the #Always1895 prompt ‘cuddling’

Watson is not as young as he used to be. 

He can feel it in the way he leans on Holmes for support as he climbs up the seventeen steps to 221b, each one feeling like a mountain in of itself. He feels it in how all his limbs ache and his eyelids fall heavy, drained of adrenaline until he is fuelled only by his own pride -because, damn it Holmes, he's not some child or blushing bride to be carried. He feels it in how although it is barely one in the morning, in the aftermath of a case, with all the tenants of Baker Street asleep, he feels no lust, no urgency to rid himself and Holmes of their clothes, no need for an energetic and passionate night to remind themselves that they are here and alive. Instead, he is simply tired.

Holmes would put that down to his grave bullet wound.

"It's hardly grave, Holmes," Watson grits out, his teeth clenched as the graze on his leg protests. "I'm fine."

Holmes ignores him, depositing Watson on their - formally his own - bed. He lies him down and undoes Watson's trousers with efficiency; were it not for his pale, blanched skin and the subtle tremble of his lips, Watson would call his attitude professional. His trousers are removed so that the graze from the bullet is visible, scarlet and angry against pale skin, the tan from his time in the army long since faded, and damp with blood. Holmes stares. And stares. 

"Holmes - Sherlock. Please." Holmes looks up then at the soft sound of his Christian name. Even after all these years, the names are reserved only for private moments, to be whispered quietly in the dead of night or in the heat of an argument or when all inhibitions are lost. They are cautious, but rightfully so in these times - the memory of the Wilde trial is firmly lodged in their memories, and so it is with the public's memory. Watson cups his cheek tenderly and offers a weak smile in reassurance. "I'm fine."

Holmes sniffs, leaning into Watson's hand. "It's still bleeding a little. Better safe than sorry. I could get a bandage, and some disinfectant, and - “

“Really, Sherlock, you worry too much. Just get a flannel and some water to clean up. It’s a superficial graze. No need for panic.”

Holmes nods, turning his head to kiss Watson’s palm, then leaves for the bathroom. Watson can’t help but exhale a sigh - it’s disconcerting to see a man, who had spent over two decades surrounded by corpses and crime scenes and the very scum of humanity, so shaken. In his chronicles, he will write that he had never seen Holmes so affected, seen such a depth of love in the other man’s countenance. In truth, he sees it every single time he is endangered, but it’s never been quite as bad as this.

Holmes returns with a jug of water and a flannel, as well as a bandage in one hand. “So you don’t get blood on the sheets,” he reasons in reply to Watson’s aborted protests. He kneels in front of him and gently presses the flannel to the graze on his thigh, dabbing away the blood with a tenderness that makes Watson’s heart clench painfully.

“Sherlock, my love, you can do it harder. I’m not made of glass.”

“Now that does sound familiar,” Holmes murmurs as he obliges and Watson chuckles. At least Holmes hasn’t lost his dry wit with the shock of the night’s events. Still, his other hand rests on the other thigh, his thumb stroking circles into the skin, as though he can’t bear to go without any form of skin to skin contact. Once he manages to clumsily wrap up the injury, Watson takes pity on him.

“Come here, Sherlock.”

“But your leg - “

“Damn my leg. Get up here. Please.”

“It’s true what they say. Doctors do make the worst patients.” Despite his grumbles, Holmes divests himself of his outer garments, strips down to his underwear while Watson smiles up at him, then climbs onto the bed, underneath the covers. He wraps his arm around Watson’s waist and tugs him closer, resting his chin on his head. Their legs slot together, so as much of them is touching as possible. With their proximity, they can feel each other’s pulses through their thin layers. This kind of indulgence is rare, normally interrupted by a case or the fear of discovery by Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or a client, knocking at all hours. 

“Better?” Watson asks quietly. He feels Holmes nod almost imperceptibly, squeezing him tighter, like any distance between them is utterly unacceptable. Reassured that Holmes is no longer panicking as much, Watson breathes, closes his eyes, lets the surrounding warmth and scent of Holmes send him into sleep...

“What would you say if I said I was considering retirement?”

He opens his eyes.

“I’d say ‘who are you and what the hell have you done with Sherlock Holmes.’”

“I’m being serious.” Holmes separates himself far enough for him to look Watson in the eye, intense and sincere. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now. Stakeouts, gunfights, chasing criminals - it’s a young man’s game. We’re...not. I need reading glasses now, for God’s sake. Your leg flares up and your shoulder aches twice as much nowadays as it used to. And tonight - “ Holmes takes a steadying breath when he realises that his voice has been rising in a steady crescendo. It wouldn’t do to awaken anyone at this hour. Not when they are embraced in so compromising and unexplainable a position. “Twenty years ago we would have caught and apprehended the man much quicker. But now you’ve paid the price.” His hand falls to the bandage, barely touching it, as he adds bitterly, “and so the whirligig of time brings its revenges.”

Watson can’t help but chuckle silently. “Christ, he’s even reciting Shakespeare now. Sherlock, I can’t make you stop working. You love your cases.”

“I love _you_. Everything else is secondary.” 

Watson softens at this, his lips parting as he exhales shakily. Holmes is not by nature a verbally sentimental man - he is a man who shows his love through glances and subtle caresses in the back of carriages, through praises and ‘conductor don lights’. To hear it so explicitly is not something Watson will ever tire of. “You’ve turned sentimental, old man,” He croaks out.

“It must be my age.” Holmes’ lips twitch into the smallest of smiles. He takes both of Watson’s hands into his own. “Will you consider it? Will you consider retiring with me?”

Watson kisses him. “My dear, it was never out of the question. We’ll discuss the whens and the wheres in the morning. For now, though, can we sleep?”

“Of course. My apologies for disturbing you.” 

With a final kiss, Watson goes to roll over to his side of the bed, as is tradition, only to be stopped by an arm at his stomach. 

“Just a little longer.” A weak voice asks. “Please.”

Watson nods, unable to deny such a request. He stays close to Holmes, allows him to be comforted that he is safe in his arms, and very, very much alive.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my tumblr [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/221carnationsonthewall)


End file.
